"The man who takes the aisle seat next to me looks about my age. He’s tall, walleyed and bushy browed. Cologne, khakis."

"He does human things: clicks his seatbelt, reaches into a pocket, places a phone on the armrest between us. Then, contorting, he goes to another pocket and sets another phone facedown on his thigh. Two phones. It’s clear: We’re doomed. Here’s what happens in my pre-takeoff anxiety attack: The man toggles between devices, glancing — deviously, I decide. My heart batters that hush from two minutes ago. I throw side-eye behind my sunglasses. I read my neighbor’s texts. They’re in an app with orange bubbles, in an alphabet I don’t recognize. I twist and turn in my seat, giraffe my neck, telekinetically press the 'call flight attendant' button, gulp enough air to inflate a balloon, cloud my sunglasses with tears, sweat through my dress, think: This is it, the plane will be hijacked, I’ll die, and my fear that flying in an airplane is reckless and dumb will be confirmed...."

From "My $1,000 Anxiety Attack," by JoAnna Novak (in the NYT).

This description of irrational anxiety about hijacking is interesting. There's so much detail about the man's looks — and his writing — and yet there's not the whiff of a hint about his ethnicity. This goes to show that in the NYT, your mind may be spiraling wackily out of control and yet you maintain stiff discipline in the crucial center of political correctness.